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  “Dr. Mac,” I say, pointing to the road, “you might need to have that emergency meeting right now.”

  A crowd has gathered around Gary’s truck. It is not a welcoming committee.

  “What are you doing?” asks an angry man.

  “Get rid of those filthy cats!” another man says. “I’ll do it myself if you won’t.”

  “You said you were getting rid of them,” Mrs. Frazier says.

  “Who’s protecting the children?” asks a concerned woman.

  “Who’s protecting us?” asks the woman next to her.

  Gary ignores what they are saying to him and carries the cages down to the clearing.

  Dr. Mac walks into the middle of the crowd. “Please, if you will all just listen to me, I will explain,” she says loudly. “Let’s all calm down.”

  A police car pulls up, followed by a TV news van and another Animal Control truck. What would Mother say if she were here? She’d say this is getting out of hand.

  Maggie’s eyes get wide. “Now what’s going to happen?” she asks.

  “This would be a great TV show, if it weren’t true,” Zoe observes.

  Gary’s boss waves him over. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but it looks like a tense conversation. I think he’s in trouble.

  The crowd in front of Dr. Mac grows louder and louder.

  “Didn’t you read the article in the paper about that poor girl who got rabies?” asks one person. “That could happen to our kids, you know. We have a right to keep them safe!”

  I hide my bandaged hand behind my back. No use making matters worse.

  “The girl did not get rabies. She’s being treated for possible exposure,” Dr. Mac tells the crowd. “No one understands the risks of unvaccinated animals better than I do. We keep the cats who are being treated until we are certain they have no diseases they could pass on to people.” Her voice is strong and firm.

  “Maybe we should walk back to the clinic,” I suggest quietly to my friends. “I don’t want anyone to recognize me. If they start up with the whole rabies thing, we’ll never be able to help these cats.”

  “And leave all this?” Brenna says. “No way!”

  “No one even knows we’re here,” Maggie says. “Don’t worry about it, Sunita.”

  Gary turns away from his boss and starts to load the empty traps into the truck. He won’t look at us or say anything. Mrs. Frazier hurries over to the truck to talk to him some more.

  “Psst! Sunita! Over here!”

  A bush is calling my name.

  “Sunita!”

  The bush rattles and the face of Jamie Frazier briefly appears, with Katie next to him. “Over here,” he repeats. “Hurry!”

  I glance at the crowd. All the grown-ups are busy yelling at one another, and my friends are watching them. No one else heard Jamie.

  I scurry over to Jamie’s hiding place. “What are you doing out here?” I ask quickly.

  “We need help,” Jamie whispers.

  “Can’t it wait?” I ask. If Mrs. Frazier sees her kids out here while Gary is releasing the ferals, she’ll flip out.

  Jamie shakes his head. “This is really important. That black cat you were looking for, Mittens—she’s having her babies.”

  “Really? That’s great!” I shout—then clap my hand across my mouth. I don’t want to call any attention to us. “So what’s the problem?” I whisper.

  “She started having the kittens yesterday,” Jamie says. “I think it’s taking too long. She doesn’t look good. Can you come look? Please.”

  I look back at the crowd.

  The police officer is talking to Dr. Mac. The crowd seems a little calmer now, but some people are still frowning. The television crew is pointing its cameras at the crowd.

  If I interrupt Dr. Mac, everyone will notice and someone might recognize me as the girl from the newspaper story.

  “All right, here’s what we’ll do,” I say. “Take me to Mittens. First, I’ll see how she’s doing, then you two go back inside your house and wait. Where is she?”

  “Follow me!” Jamie says.

  Keeping one eye on the crowd, we quickly cross the railroad tracks and dash across the clearing.

  “She’s under there,” Jamie says, pointing under the boxcar.

  I crouch down to see. Jamie and Katie kneel next to me. Mittens is under the boxcar, right at the front edge. There is one kitten on the ground near her, but it’s dead. I shudder.

  “Stay back, Katie,” I say. I don’t want her to see this. It’s kind of gross and scary.

  Mittens is pushing hard, trying to make the next kitten come out. She meows in pain. I can’t tell what’s wrong, but I know we should get her to the clinic.

  “OK, listen to me,” I tell Jamie. “I want you to take Katie home. There’s no use getting you in trouble for this. I’m going to get Dr. Mac. Mittens needs to go to the clinic right now.”

  Jamie nods. “Can’t you just pick her up and carry her?” he whispers.

  Katie pokes me in the back. I ignore her—I’m too worried about Mittens.

  “I’m afraid I might hurt her,” I say. “We don’t know what’s going on. I’ve never seen a cat have kittens before.”

  Katie pokes again. “Su-Sunita,” she says anxiously.

  I turn around to find a raccoon trapping us against the boxcar. “Look out!” I cry.

  The raccoon’s teeth are bared, and saliva drips from its mouth. My heart starts to pound. Raccoons are nocturnal animals. They rarely come out in the day unless . . . they have rabies.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mommy!” Katie screams.

  The crowd around Gary’s truck stops yelling and arguing, and turns to look across the tracks at us.

  “Stay back,” I tell Katie and Jamie. I grab their shirts and pull them behind me.

  Mrs. Frazier starts to run toward us, but two men stop her. “Let me go!” she screams. “Jamie! Katie!”

  “Everyone, stay where you are,” the police officer orders, walking slowly toward the rail bed. He puts his hand on his gun. “I won’t fire until I have a clear shot.”

  The raccoon steps closer and glares at me with poisonous yellow eyes. This is what full-blown rabies looks like. The disease has infected the raccoon’s brain, and it’s not afraid of anything. All it wants to do is attack—attack us!

  Jamie struggles to break free.

  “Don’t move,” I tell him.

  “We have to get away!” he says in a panicked voice.

  “No,” I say firmly. “The raccoon is too close. If we try to run, it’ll catch us. Don’t move.”

  “We can’t stay here!” Jamie says.

  “I’m scared,” Katie cries.

  The train whistle blows in the distance. In a minute it’s going to cut us off from our escape route. I have to think of something—fast.

  “Shhh, it will be OK,” I say, sounding more confident than I feel. I reach behind me to the open door to the boxcar and fumble around for something—anything—I can use to protect us. My fingers close around small bits of something. Gravel? Cat food! Maybe I can throw it at the raccoon, then we can run.

  I slowly bring my hand around.

  Underneath the boxcar, Mittens meows in pain. The raccoon’s eyes dart around, then stop. He sees her lying just behind my ankles. He takes another step toward us.

  Just then, the long train to Philadelphia roars past. Dust is swirling everywhere. I squint and blink my eyes. I can’t see the grown-ups on the other side of the tracks. They can’t see us, either. We’re trapped! I’ve got to do something quick.

  I throw the cat food at the raccoon. It lands behind him. Three stray cats rush out from the weeds. “Merow!” They’re hungry and think we’re feeding them.

  The raccoon turns to look at the cats. I glance over, too. It’s the gray cat with the crooked tail, one of the black-and-white strays, and—“Socrates! Where have you ... ”

  “Fsssst!” Socrates has no time for small talk. He and
the other cats stand with their backs arched, ready to defend their territory and their food. They stare down the intruding raccoon. Socrates hisses, his coat puffed out. The crooked-tail cat lowers his ears.

  Just as the last train car whishes by, Socrates and the other cats leap and pounce on the raccoon, attacking with claw and tooth. The animals are a blur of fur and flashing teeth.

  I swing Katie up into my arms and grab Jamie’s hand, then run with them across the train tracks to safety.

  “Don’t shoot!” I scream at the police officer who has pulled his gun out. “Don’t shoot the orange cat—he’s a pet!”

  The fighting animals spring apart. Socrates and his companions flee into the weeds. The rabid raccoon snarls and bites at the air. The police officer aims his gun. I pull Katie and Jamie toward me so they won’t see. I don’t want to look either. I squeeze my eyes shut. Two loud shots ring out.

  Oh, please, let Socrates be OK. Please.

  “All clear,” shouts a man. “The raccoon is dead.”

  By the time I look again, Dr. Mac is fighting her way into the underbrush with the rest of the Dr. Mac’s Place kids close behind her. I make sure Katie and Jamie are safe with their mother, then I join the search party. We are not going to let Socrates get away this time.

  Chapter Fourteen

  We find Socrates in the weeds beyond the boxcar. He is bleeding heavily. After wrapping him in a towel, I carry him to the van. He’s nearly unconscious. Mittens isn’t doing much better. Dr. Mac says she needs an emergency cesarean to save her kittens.

  Mittens is settled into a box at my feet in the van, and Socrates rides in my lap. His blood is soaking through the towel and his eyes are closed.

  “Stay with us, Socrates,” I whisper into his torn ear. “Just a little longer.”

  Dr. Mac drives to the clinic as fast as she can. I wish she had a siren and flashing lights like ambulances do for people. She parks in the driveway and jumps out. We rush our critical patients into the operating room. Dr. Gabe lays Socrates on the operating table while Dr. Mac wheels in a portable table and sets Mittens on that. There’s no time to waste. Both animals need surgery right away.

  I’ve seen plenty of exams before, but not surgery. Dr. Mac gives me a serious look. “Scrub up, if you’re staying,” she says as she and Dr. Gabe prepare to operate. “But understand,” she adds, “they might not make it.”

  I swallow hard and nod. “I know. But I want to help.”

  I wash, then slip an extra-large glove over my bandaged hand and put a rubber band around my wrist to hold the glove in place. I thought it would be cool to wear a surgical cap and gown like vets do when they operate, but I’m too worried. Dr. Gabe’s scrubs are already spattered with Socrates’ blood, and Mittens’ heart rate is dangerously high.

  “What should I do?” I ask.

  Dr. Gabe doesn’t even look at me. He is totally focused on trying to slow Socrates’ bleeding. I really want to help Socrates, but I don’t want to do anything wrong. All those cuts and blood everywhere—what if he doesn’t make it?

  “Over here, Sunita,” Dr. Mac says.

  She briskly rubs Mittens’ shaved belly with a soapy sponge, then washes off the soap with alcohol and paints the skin with an iodine disinfectant.

  “Hand me that package there,” she says, pointing to the counter. “The one with the tube. Open it, then pass it over.”

  I tear the package open and Dr. Mac removes a slender, curved tube from it. She quickly opens Mittens’ jaws with the fingers of her left hand and slips the tube down her throat with her right. The sedative has made Mittens completely limp. She doesn’t even care that she has a tube down her throat.

  “This is called a trach tube. It goes down the trachea, the windpipe, and gives me an open pathway to Mittens’ lungs,” Dr. Mac explains as she secures the end of the tube to Mittens’ mouth with some tape. “Anesthesia machine—push it over here.”

  The anesthesia machine is the size of a large microwave oven on wheels, but it has a lot more dials and buttons. Dr. Mac pulls a clear plastic hose from the machine and hooks it to the trach tube.

  The anesthesia puts Mittens into a very deep sleep so that she won’t feel anything during the operation.

  Dr. Gabe throws a piece of bloody gauze on the floor and presses a clean one onto Socrates’ wound. I have never seen him look so serious.

  “Surgical drapes,” says Dr. Mac.

  I take a bundle of pressed sheets out of a sterile package. Dr. Mac unfolds them and lays them on Mittens so that only the clipped area of her belly shows. “Almost ready now.”

  She attaches a little clip with a wire to Mitten’s foreleg. The wire leads to a heart monitor. It measures Mittens’ vital signs, how fast she’s breathing, and how often her heart beats.

  “See that line on the heart monitor?” Dr. Mac says. “That shows us the rhythm of Mittens’ heartbeat. Her heart is beating regularly, two hundred beats a minute. That’s a bit fast, but nothing to worry about. Now let’s rescue some kittens.”

  Dr. Mac reaches for a scalpel.

  “Sunita,” Dr. Gabe calls. “I need your help.”

  I dash over to Dr. Gabe. Socrates is lying on a bloody sheet. Dr. Gabe has an I.V. bag going to keep Socrates’ fluid levels up, but he really needs blood. We called the blood bank from the cell phone in the van, and they said they would send someone over right away. They should have been here by now.

  Dr. Gabe frowns. “I thought I had the bleeding under control, but he must be bleeding internally as well. Call the blood bank again. Find out where that courier is.”

  He grabs a fresh gauze pad from a pile on the table and presses it against the open, bleeding wound on Socrates’ leg. Bloody gauze litters the ground at his feet. It makes me feel kind of queasy, so I focus on the telephone, dialing quickly and asking how long until the courier arrives.

  “They said it will be five more minutes,” I explain as I hang up. “Is he going to make it?”

  Dr. Gabe doesn’t look at me. “I’m doing everything I can. More gauze. And get another I.V. bag ready, just in case.”

  I lay the supplies he needs at the end of the table where he can reach them. Socrates doesn’t look like himself. He’s lost some weight, and there are bites and cuts all over his body. He was so brave fighting that raccoon. Just thinking about it makes me want to cry. He can’t die, not now. He’s home. I reach out to pet his tail, but he doesn’t move at all. His eyes are closed. He doesn’t even know I’m here.

  “That’s all I need you for now,” Dr. Gabe says kindly.

  “How’s Mittens?” I ask Dr. Mac.

  “Heart rate stabilized, respiration fine. Good thing we brought her in. One of her kittens was blocking the birth canal.”

  “You mean she could have died?” I ask.

  “Well, that won’t happen now. And here is the first baby,” Dr. Mac says as she lifts a tiny wet bundle out of the incision in Mittens’ belly.

  “Wow!” I exclaim as Dr. Mac lays the black-and-white kitten on a towel next to Mittens. “That was so fast!”

  “Here’s number two,” Dr. Mac says as she takes out the second kitten. She snips the umbilical cord and lays the second kitten next to the first. “Grab another towel, Sunita, and clean these babies up.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  “Sure. Normally the mother cat licks the kittens clean, but since Mittens is knocked out, you’ll have to do that for her.”

  I take the corner of a towel and gently rub the first kitten’s wet fur. The kitten stretches and opens its pink mouth wide. “Look!” I cry.

  “Cute, huh? Here are numbers three and four,” Dr. Mac says as she sets the next pair down. “One more.” She lifts the last kitten, snips the cord, and lays him with his brothers and sisters. “I think we have a new family!” she says proudly.

  I glance over at Socrates. He’s still limp. Dr. Gabe is frowning, still trying to stop the bleeding. Come on, Socrates, hang in there! The kittens made it—you can,
too. Just a few more minutes.

  The bell on the front door jangles.

  “The blood’s here,” Dr. Mac says. “Hurry, Sunita!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  I run down the hall to the reception room. The other Dr. Mac’s Place kids are waiting there with the courier from the blood bank. Dr. Mac said only one of us could be in the operating room, and everyone decided it should be me. The courier looks surprised to see an eleven-year-old wearing surgical scrubs.

  “I’ll sign for it,” Zoe says as she takes the clipboard from the courier’s hands.

  “Are they OK?” Brenna asks.

  “What’s going on?” Maggie asks. “How’s Socrates?”

  “We’ll know in a few minutes,” I say as I grab the small ice chest and run back to the operating room.

  I thrust the ice chest into Dr. Gabe’s hands. He takes a bag of dark red blood from the chest and quickly connects the tubing from it to a catheter already inserted into Socrates’ foreleg. In less than a minute, the blood starts flowing from the bag into Socrates.

  “How do you know it’s the right kind of blood?” I ask. “Aren’t there a lot of different blood types?”

  “Most cats have type A blood,” he explains. “If Socrates were a Persian or Cornish Rex, then we’d have to type and match, because he could have type B or AB.” He pauses to check the flow of the blood in the tubing. “Excellent. This will buy us some time,” he says. “J.J., I could use your help.”

  “I’ll be right there,” Dr. Mac says.

  Mittens has been stitched up and taken off the anesthesia, but she is still connected to the heart monitor.

  “Sunita, I want you to keep an eye on Mittens’ vital signs and watch the kittens closely,” she tells me. “If anything looks strange, anything at all, sing out and one of us will come running.” Dr. Mac peels off one pair of gloves and snaps on another, then joins Dr. Gabe to help sew up Socrates.

  Socrates has to make it. With the two best vets in the world helping him, he just has to. I say a little prayer, just in case, then focus on my patients.